


That #$%&ing Flatshare Fic

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Flatshare - Beth O'Leary
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, Romance Novel, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26251327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: "Double bedroom in sunny Stockwell flat, rent GBP350 per month including bills. Available immediately, short-term only.Flat (and room/bed) is to share with thirty-seven-year-old personal trainer/archery coach who works days and is away on weekends. Only ever in the flat 10 p.m. to 6:30 a.m. Monday to Friday. All yours the rest of the time! Perfect for someone who works nightshifts!To view, contact C. Barton - details below."
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Kate Bishop/America Chavez
Comments: 19
Kudos: 96





	That #$%&ing Flatshare Fic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> Today, I'd like to honour the Slayer of Misspelling, the Wrangler of Syntax, yes, it is none other than She Who Fearlessly Wields The Semicolon.
> 
> It's [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas) Appreciation Day! 
> 
> Don't worry, I'm not idolizing her, I'm all too aware she has flaws - for instance she thinks The Flatshare was a good book. :P
> 
> My gratitude goes out to [gsparkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle) and [Inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices) for beta and britpicking. 
> 
> All remaining errors are my own ~~as much as I want to blame Beth O'Leary~~.

Natasha has safe houses in a lot of places, but it'd be ridiculous to believe she has one _everywhere_ in the world. Especially not in London, where real estate is literally something people have been murdered over.

All Natasha needs is a place to sleep for a few days. During the nights she’ll be busy finding the most opportune moment to obtain the _Falkenauge,_ a large purple sapphire which has finally reappeared after years of obscurity. As it's meant to be auctioned as part of a fundraiser during the 25th annual European Diamond and Gemstone Exhibition, it will either leave with Natasha right away or be liberated from its buyer soon thereafter. None of this should pose any undue difficulty, so the only thing missing now is a place for her to sleep during the day.

And who would have thought, there’s some comic convention or other at the same time as some big premiere of something else - isn't there always in this city? Hotels are full, Airbnb's are booked, and Natasha is left holding a suitcase full of knives, a catsuit, and an evening gown with nowhere to go.

Well, _sod this for a lark_ , as the natives might say.

So, in between searching the background of a thousand Instagram pictures of selfies in the diamond exhibition for security clues, Natasha is also looking at Gumtree classifieds to find a short term place to stay. It's too much hassle, it really is, but if she wants to be admitted to the auction she's going to, at least, need a decent bathroom and access to an ironing board.

Hooking up with a random guy and taking over his place for the duration of the job would be doable, but if she's perfectly honest she's not in the mood for the effort. Mostly because it'd be too much work and distraction to keep up the charade and if he turned out to be too much of a bother she'd have to tie him up somewhere and make sure the neighbours don't notice. Not to mention that if she killed him, he'd start smelling after a while and urgh, the additional logistics of disposing of a body in a city as populated as London...! Yeah, well, thanks but no thanks.

She's just about to give up when a peculiar ad for a flatshare catches her eye:

_Double bedroom in sunny Stockwell flat, rent GBP350 per month including bills. Available immediately, short-term only._

_Flat (and room/bed) is to share with thirty-seven-year-old personal trainer/archery coach who works days and is away on weekends. Only ever in the flat 10 p.m. to 6:30 a.m. Monday to Friday. All yours the rest of the time! Perfect for someone who works nightshifts!_

_To view, contact C. Barton - details below._

This sounds... weird.

But, desperate times and all that.

If all else fails, she can always kill them.

***

"This is either going to attract the type of person who reads _shared bed_ and _personal trainer_ together and wants to have sex with you, or weirdos who want to murder you to inherit your prime real estate. Or, you know, _both,"_ Kate says, and Clint genuinely wishes he could say anything to prove her wrong. As it stands, there's not a single thing he can think of that would be convincing to himself, much less his friend.

Her raised eyebrow and crossed arms say she's figured as much.

"Okay, I admit it sounds kinda _innovative_ as a concept -" she snorts and rolls her eyes "- but Barney's still in jail and if I want to visit him as often as possible, I can’t work as many hours as I want to. You know that I love my flat. And my neighbours. It's just for a little while, I mean the ad specifically says 'short-term', so whoever it is, it's not gonna be forever. I'll burn the sheets later and sleep on the floor with Lucky in the meantime, if necessary. As long as the money keeps coming in until I can bag some wealthy new client who pays me what I deserve to help them get rid of their love handles. I know what I'm doing." 

He gives her his best half-suppressed grin for good measure, knowing that, despite everything, Kate Bishop cannot resist the double whammy of puppy eyes and an _aw-shucks_ smile.

Even if she knows that he's usually full of shit.

 _Especially_ if she knows he's full of shit.

"Whatever!" She caves, as expected. "But don't come crying to us when someone's gone and murdered you in your sleep!"

"I'll always have Lucky with me, he'll protect me," Clint says, patting his dog's upturned belly.

Lucky farts audibly but sleeps on.

Clint hangs his head.

"He's totally gonna get murdered, _corazón_ ," America says matter-of-factly, without so much as looking up from her book.

***

After a short exchange of emails, Natasha now knows she's dealing with a guy. She decides to go for the _my ex-boyfriend is getting married and I need a new place to stay ASAP_ approach, in terms of a backstory. God knows the trite _woman defining herself by man's actions_ will be easy enough to sell, no need to learn some complicated tale. Plus, if all else fails, she can always break into tears - men get predictably useless around weepy women.

In preparation, she's chosen the big sunglasses, which will signal to even the dimmest of wits that she has _something_ to hide, and pokes herself in each eye on her way up the stairs to sufficiently cry through her make-up.

Only the person who opens the door is not the guy from the email.

It's a woman maybe ten or so years her junior, straight black hair down to her hips, penchant for purple. She gives Natasha a very thorough, sceptical once-over.

"You must be Nicole," the woman says, smiling in a way that does not reach her eyes. "I’m Kate, Clint's- I'm his best friend. He had to work but didn't want to keep you waiting. Which is why I came to help out." 

It's interesting how she hesitates the briefest instant over defining their relationship and Natasha decides that instant that she must not, under any circumstances, appear like any type of romantic competition if she wants to live here.

"So nice to meet you, Kate." Natasha brushes the curly blond wig back from her brow and gives her best, wobbly _would-rather-be-crying_ smile before she takes off her shades. With fake hesitance, she reveals her red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry," she forces out, voice breaking as she bites her lip, "I'm so sorry, but... I just found out my girlfriend - my _ex_ I should say - has a _boyfriend_ now and I'm- I'm a bit of a mess..." Fresh tears spring to her eyes and, just like that, Kate's eyes soften.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," she practically coos with deeply-ingrained female sisterhood and yeah, this place is as good as in the bag.

***

Despite having a strange woman living in his place while he’s out, nothing much changes in Clint's life. If he didn't occasionally find things moved just slightly, he'd have a hard time remembering it was real at all.

They'd agreed on Nicole moving in for four weeks, probationary, while she was looking for a proper place of her own. With an option to stay longer, unless either of them had any complaints.

For noticeable changes, there's an additional woollen hat on the hook in the hallway (black) and one pair of nondescript high heels (also black, size 3). Every morning finds a rinsed mug (pink print: _My Cat is Cuter Than Your Boyfriend_ ) drying next to the sink, and there's a new package of steadily diminishing teabags ( _Lady Grey - Bright with Zesty Orange!_ ) in the cupboard. In a way, Clint imagines it’s like what living with a very tidy ghost must be like. For instance, the shower has never been cleaner. He's not exactly a slob himself and, sure, he's been making a bit more of an effort to clean up after himself since he's seen his place with the eyes of some potential stranger who might judge him on the amount of crumbs left on the kitchen table. But there's never so much as a stray hair left in the shower, even if moisture on both the shower curtain and the brightly pink fluffy bath towel are an indicator it's been used. And there's nothing personal in the bin - not that he's actively gone through it, he's not a creep, thanks very much. 

His bed is immaculately made every evening, her own pillow moved thoughtfully to the spare chair. The military precision of crisp lines in the sheet stand in sharp contrast to the faint trace of a pleasant, unobtrusive perfume lingering defiantly. If Clint sleeps a little better and his unremembered dreams leave him waking a little happier, it doesn't hurt.

***

The bad news is that Natasha's plans to steal the sapphire aren't progressing. The charity auction came and went and, before she could get her hands on it, the piece her client is after was sold to local business mogul Derek Bishop and transferred to his private estate. Rudely, Mr. Bishop has some actually decent security measures set up and so, with no little frustration, Natasha extends her contract with the thankfully elusive Mr. Barton for another four weeks.

Since she's going to have to keep to her schedule of sleeping days and staying out during the night, she may as well do something about her living arrangements.

_"Either you have some unusual habits you should see a dentist and/or a psychiatrist about, or you own a previously unmentioned dog who has eaten the better part of one of my suede heels. Either way, I think you owe me 45 quid."_

Natasha looks at the pink sticky note she's attached to the fridge. Then, because she's sure _Nicole_ , who has a bisexual ex-girlfriend and clearly some Cosmo-worthy issues about self-worth or being liked by strangers or some such nonsense, adds: " _P.S.: I hope your dog's alright! -N."_ making the dot at the bottom of the exclamation mark a little heart and adding a sad face for good measure.

They may not exactly have been Louboutins, but they were a comfortable pair of shoes for that amount of money, and yes, maybe Natasha's frustration about the foiled attempts at stealing a blasted piece of jewellery just needed a convenient outlet.

When she returns to the flat the next morning her note is gone, but there is a new one next to the cheap mug she brought when she moved in. The mug itself has a share size bag of Cadbury Caramel Nibbles squeezed into it and the note has been taken from her own pink block. While the penmanship is legible, it's only just barely so.

" _His name is Lucky and I'd be lying if I said he was sorry - but I am! For what it's worth: I did give him a stern talking to!"_ There's an honest-to-God Polaroid on the counter next to it - who even uses Polaroids in this day and age?! - and it's of an upside-down, belly-baring, tongue-lolling, one-eyed golden retriever that is the most adorkable thing Natasha has seen in her entire life.

There's also 30 pounds in crinkled notes and some loose change on the counter that amounts to 78p, along with a second note reading: _"Rest tomorrow, promise!!!!!!!"_

Against her every intention, Natasha finds herself smiling.

***

When Clint returns home that night, Lucky in tow, it's to find a dog's chew toy in the shape of an old boot in front of the sagging shoe rack and half of the chocolates in Clint's mug on the counter. He keeps wondering about it for the rest of the day until finally, just before he leaves the house the next day, he writes her a second note:

" _Thx 4 the toy and the candy. How did you know that was my favourite mug?"_

***

There's a few days' worth of assorted sticky notes slowly accumulating on different surfaces of the apartment. At some point, Clint expresses his concern that she didn't move in with more stuff, with his observations on the previous women in his life and their habits of collecting all sorts of crap both candid and surprisingly witty in execution.

Natasha's retort that technically she isn't _in_ his life, more adjacent to it, leads to a spread-out written consideration regarding what exactly defines being part of anyone's life. It's not quite clear to her how that links to the following discussion of life in general, favourite breakfast foods and religious beliefs.

Clint drifts adorably off-topic describing his idea of pet heaven.

They run out of sticky notes soon after.

***

"We love you, man, but you can't go on staying over every weekend," Kate says a couple of weeks later. Clint is sitting in his boxers in her and America's kitchen, frowning over a bowl of sugarfree muesli with yogurt and fresh fruit. He has been composing a strongly-worded note to his flatmate in his mind about how this _obviously_ is not the best, but the absolute-futzing-worst breakfast in the entire world, so Kate telling him he’s being kicked out kinda catches him off guard.

"Hmmph?" he replies, eloquently.

Naturally, this is when America comes in from the bedroom. As always, she already looks like a million bucks upon waking, which, in turn, makes Clint feel both scruffier and lonelier than a minute ago.

" _I_ certainly don't love you," she clarifies, as if anyone would believe her, Clint knows he's adorable, "but I second the sentiment." She kisses Kate's temple and, her distraction successful, steals her mug right from under her nose. Clint watches in impotent horror as she sacrilegiously pours almond milk into perfectly good coffee. Absently, he wonders what Nicole would think of such an act.

"Weekends are for lounging about in our pants and indulging in unapologetic lesbianism," America continues, tipping the _Real Women Have Recurves_ mug in his direction in emphasis.

"And I fully appreciate you freely expressing your mutual devotion and admiration. I'm a lesbian at heart, you know." Clint bats his lashes at her all innocently.

"See, saying shit like that is exactly why you can't stay _, mi idiota favorito."_ she smiles and blows him a kiss.

***

If nothing else, at least the description on the box was exactly right, Natasha thinks on Saturday morning as she bravely finishes a bowl of what calls itself " _Cur¡ous!y Cinnamon"._ It's definitely curious, from artificial taste to obnoxious spelling. She's just about to formulate a scathing review of what Clint considers _breakfast_ when the landline phone starts ringing. It's a big, black piece of antiquated, wall-mounted equipment, its long, spiralling cord hopelessly twisted. Up until this moment, Natasha considered it to be purely decorative. Who even has a landline anymore?

"Hello?" she answers tentatively.

"Oh, hey," says a guy at the other end, apparently surprised.

A moment of awkward silence falls, as if he's waiting for her to introduce herself, but since he's the one who called, clearly he should be the one to state his business.

"Is Clint in?"

"No."

"You Kate?"

"No."

"You Kate's girlfriend?"

"No." _That's a useful tidbit,_ Natasha smiles to herself. Maybe it shows in her voice. The caller laughs, intrigued. It sounds smoke-roughened but not unpleasant.

"You my little brother's girlfriend, darlin'?" His voice is downright playful now and Natasha huffs an unimpressed laugh, tucking the phone into her shoulder, and starts the coffee maker.

"Depends, who's your brother?"

The caller laughs again, but suppresses the volume, as if in company. "Since you're answering the phone at his place, I'd say it's as fair a guess as any. I'm Clint's big brother, Barney."

"Nice to meet you Barney."

"Likewise, I'm sure. You got a name, too, darlin'?"

"I do, thanks for asking. Like I said: Clint isn't in. Try his mobile."

"Yeah, no can do, mystery girl" He sounds as charming as every bullshitter ever and Natasha lets her disbelieving silence do the talking. "I know, sounds shitty, but y'see I'm currently detained at Her Majesty's pleasure and Clint's landline's the only number I've managed to get set up for me."

"Well, that certainly sucks," Natasha says without any audible concern, sipping at her coffee.

"Aren't you gonna ask me what I'm in for, darlin'?"

"Nope," Natasha replies honestly. "Why, you want to tell me?"

"Yeah, I do a bit. Most people ask."

"I'm not most people." This time she knows her smile is audible.

"So I'm starting to believe," Barney drawls, intrigued and amused in equal measures. He gives a pensive hum but doesn't elaborate. The scarce background noises that filter through the line would fit with his story.

"Will you take a message for my brother, darlin'?" he asks after a moment's consideration.

Natasha hums an affirmative and reaches for the new stack of bright red post-its that have replaced her depleted pink ones.

" _Hey Clint, Barney called. He says to tell you..._ " she prompts as she writes.

"...looks like you finally got your shit together if you got yourself a girl with a sexy voice like that. I can tell she probably also looks-"

"You know what: I'm gonna leave it at _Barney called,"_ Natasha interrupts, rolling her eyes with amused disbelief and hangs up on the sounds of the guy's delightfully surprised laughter.

***

As a master of the puppy-dog eyes, Clint has managed to guilt Kate into talking to her old man about getting him a part-time security guard job. The way Clint sees it, having more income would mean he could afford to pay for his flat by himself again, meaning at the weekends he'd be out of the way of the erotic extravaganza waiting to happen at _Chez Chavez_.

Since Clint's references do include a stint in the army and several archery trophies placed casually in the background of his application photo, he's very much qualified.

There's only one thing left to do. He takes a deep breath and calls his own landline.

***

Although living in this bed share has turned out to be unexpected amounts of fun in a strange and unusual way, Natasha isn't too sad to know it's coming to an end. After Bishop's two most valuable security men have contracted sudden and acute cases of food poisoning, there will only be one hastily vetted temporary guard around the premises tonight.

A modified version of her favourite electrical charges has been rigged to send out an electromagnetic pulse strong enough to disrupt the wireless surveillance cameras around the western perimeter. Aided by the wild ivy that has corrupted the historical parts of the surrounding wall, Natasha will scale its height an hour after nightfall. From there, it's only a question of traversing the branches of an ancient red oak undetected towards the roof of the conservatory and then up the trellis and to the upper study's window.

Jimmy the window, crack the safe located behind the tacky egotistical self-portrait, grab the purple sapphire, and beat a hasty retreat. Sleep a few hours at the flat the next morning before catching a train at St.Pancras. From there, it's only a hop, skip, and a jump through the Channel Tunnel and _Bonjour à la France_. Easy as pie. Or maybe _pain au chocolat._

The ringing phone rips her from daydreams of French _boulangeries._

_***_

"Hello?"

Clint almost drops his phone at the husky voice. Mentally he curses his brother for teasing him so much about his flatmate's supposedly dulcet tones that he'd convinced himself she must have the phlegmatic croak of a comic book witch.

"Nicole?" he coughs out, just in time to stop her from hanging up on him, probably. _Get a futzin' grip, Barton._ "Hi, it's, uhm, it's Clint."

The second's pause before she replies feels like it moves as slow as treacle and Clint watches the tips of his ratty converse align themselves with a crack in the pavement.

"Clint, hi." She sounds surprised. What if she hasn't found a new place to live yet? Can he really just kick her out? "Is something wrong?"

Can he decide to _not_ kick her out? How weird would that be, to keep sharing a place and a bed with someone you'd never seen?

"No, no, nothing's wrong! It's all good. Although. Well."

Clint observes with an odd sense of detachment that his shoe is unravelling where once-white rubber meets once-purple canvas and the grey of his sock is peeking through. _Better hope I don't get rained on anytime soon._

"It's just..." He breaks off once more and breathes deeply.

"You need your place back," she finishes his thought, and something about hearing her quiet alto makes a sudden mix of confusing emotions coil pleasantly in his gut. He murmurs an affirmative, the relief at not having to say the words leaving him feeling cowardly and strangely guilty.

"I'm sorry. It's- I got a new job." The brick wall is cool against his forehead and Clint scrunches his eyes closed. _God, this is like breaking up with someone you were never even together with. Well. Can't really be worse than all my other break-ups, I was shit at those, too._

"That's great news, I’m so happy for you," she says, like a _saint._ "Actually, I wanted to tell you that I was planning to move on as well."

"Oh?" His posture straightens on its own accord.

"Yes. I'm, uhm, I'm going to Edinburgh. My sister lives there and she might have work for me."

"Right! That's, well, that's brilliant! I'm happy for you, too. Good news all around, I guess." Clint winces at the fake enthusiasm ringing out from his words.

"Yeah!" she agrees. Her voice is a lot less sure when she adds, "Do you need me to leave right now?"

"No! No, no, no. Shit, no, of course not!" His hand is distractedly ruining what's left of his, admittedly already only ever meagre, efforts at a presentable head of hair.

"Is by the weekend soon enough?"

That'd mean three more days. Even if there's a few late nights on the job, he can tide himself over with a cat nap here and there. "Yeah, sure, that's- that'd be perfect. Do you, maybe-" It's out before he can stop himself and when she just waits for him to continue, he can’t help asking, "Do you want to hand over the keys in person? I mean, after all we’ve never even met."

His pulse is loud in his ears and his cheeks suspiciously warm. When she finally replies, there's a smile in her voice that reawakens the butterflies in his stomach:

"I'll leave them on the table. Let's keep the mystery."

***

She should have listened to her inner sceptic or, failing that, at least to Robbie Burns and his observations on the best laid plans of mice and men. In all seriousness though: who in their right mind could have predicted a security guard brandishing a fucking _bow and arrow_?!

Bracing for more excruciating pain, Natasha's teeth have sunk so deep into the leather of her hastily ripped-off utility belt their imprint is likely never fading. At least she could pull the arrow - and it is indeed a fucking black-shafted, purple-fletched _arrow! -_ from her thigh that way _._ From this day forth, she vows to wear the marked belt as a reminder never to call a job ” _easy as pie”_ ever again.

Provided she doesn't bleed out or die of gangrene or anything else as surprisingly anachronistic as that.

_A fucking archer._

The worst thing about it is, that like an absolute fucking amateur she's gone and panicked and only now, now that she's turning the key in the lock of the flat, she realizes it's the middle of the night.

It's not her time.

She might not be alone.

Her flatmate with the criminal brother. Who knows what he's gonna do when he finds her in the small apartment in the middle of the night. Not like she can play the seductress card while wearing what essentially boils down to a cat burglar suit - a spade's a spade, and this is what it's wearing for work. Also the still steadily oozing puncture wound might be a slight turn-off.

Natasha slides her favourite throwing knife from its sheath and pitches her voice to girly and unthreatening. "Clint? Are you home?"

She waits.

Listens.

Knife poised to throw.

Nothing. Nobody home.

Reluctantly, she returns the knife to its holster and sets to the gruelling task of bending to remove her boots. She's going to have to get her kit off if she wants to have a proper look at her injury and, painfully shedding it bit by bit, she makes the suddenly endless pilgrimage towards the bathroom.

Now that the immediate rush of adrenaline is ebbing away, her hands begin to shake against the myriad of buckles and zippers, palms tacky with dried blood. Underneath the icy spray of water, her legs give out, even though the coldness shocks her back into full consciousness at the same time. The water's echoing roar is oppressive and loud in the small space.

Fortunately, it soon becomes clear that the bleeding is already slowing. Moving hurts, but if she can just patch herself up she might be able to avoid seeing a doctor until France. Shivering, she slides down the tiles and sits with her back against the shower wall. Only wearing her drenched bra and underwear, she is keenly aware that she needs to move and soon. She's going to need to patch herself up and drink some water. Do something for her blood sugar.

The water shuts off.

Sluggishly, Natasha opens her eyes.

In front of her, a handsome blonde man squats, wearing a rumpled black suit. There's a white bandaid over the bridge of his nose and he looks at her with a curious mix of worry, awe, and awkward amusement. 

Just inside the door, as if he dropped it in his hurry to get to her side, Natasha spots a quiver of purple-fletched arrows.

"Hey roomie, I'm Clint," he says, gently pushing a strand of wet hair from her face. He smiles crookedly, "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess your name isn't Nicole."


End file.
